A/N: Thanks for all of the continued support. Another chapter next week. More notes available at the end.

Disclaimer: None of it is mine; it's all JKR's.


A Likely Story

by: carpetfibers

three


She abhorred being late.

"Ten minutes, Ron," she reminded, calling up from the stair well. Her foot tapped, impatience pushing her stomach into unnecessary knots. It was just a family dinner, an informal affair, but arriving ten minutes late, seeing the entire table seated and prepared and the crowd left waiting-- she hated walking into that. So what if no one cared, if no one found the lateness rude or inconsiderate. She cared, she thought it rude and inconsiderate.

And really, that fact alone should make him care as well.

"Aren't you a tad under-dressed?"

Hermione whirled around, her stomach's anxiety doubling as she took in the neatly creased robes and carefully combed hair. "I thought this was just dinner."

"Fleur's parents owled this morning; they're treating us to dinner at the embassy." Ron frowned as he adjusted the length of his shirt sleeves, the tailoring just a smidgen off. Distantly, she realized it still bothered her, his recent fastidiousness. "I left a note for you on the counter."

"A note?" She stepped into the kitchen, spotting the piece of parchment pinned near the sink. She had missed it entirely, having skipped breakfast while finishing up her week-end read. "I never saw it, Ron-- this is what the mobile is for!"

His frown deepened, a crease forming over his brow. "There's a few minutes still; it'll be fine if we're a bit late."

She wanted to argue that no, it really wouldn't be fine, but she needed those three minutes for a last second wardrobe change.

Seven minutes later-- and barely on time-- she realized that she was still woefully under-dressed. The cardigan she'd thrown on to match the pale blue paisley skirt screamed bargain purchase when compared to the silk and chiffon that greeted her on the other end of the Floo. Even Molly was done to the nines, her hair dotted with pearls and a matching string around her neck. Hermione stood there, worrying a run into her panty hose with the toe of her flats, and desperately wished she could will herself into illness.

Fleur planted a kiss on each of her cheeks. "'Ermione, you look lovely."

It said something to Fleur's acting skills that she sounded sincere. Hermione summoned a wan smile. "Thank you, Fleur. Your robes are gorgeous."

The compliment was rewarded with two dimples. Hermione teetered forward for the rest of the introductions, always as Ron's girlfriend, and yes, the Hermione Granger from the War. Pleasantries exchanged, and once she could manage it without drawing too much attention, she grabbed Ron's elbow and pulled him aside. "I can't go out with you all like this."

He paused long enough to run his gaze up and down the once; she felt like punching him. "You're right. Maybe you can go back, change and then meet us for dessert?"

"Sounds good." She'd rather he had reassured her that her obviously inappropriate wear was just fine, but beggars and choosers and the like. "Ring me about ten minutes out, all right?"

"I'll make up an excuse for you then." He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and the tenderness warmed her. She was still smiling when he continued with some unnecessary advice. "Don't wear the red one, though."

Her fists curled around the Floo box, and she flashed an insincere smile. "Red dress it is then." She didn't stay long enough to let him argue otherwise.

~*~

George purposely planned to meet the party outside the embassy. He had also arranged to arrive with the requisite female adornment dangling from his elbow, but his mother had nipped that intention in the bud. Something or the other about not bringing tarts about to family gatherings; he had tuned out halfway through the conversation. His internal itinerary included the best approach to the dining table; he would stick to Charlie, and ensure that he was as far from his youngest brother as possible. Given a choice between sitting by Fleur and her parents and ending up next to a certain other female, he'd rather lose his appetite than his sanity.

Not that she was lunacy-inducing, merely an overwhelming distraction.

He scanned the group three times before confirming that Ron was definitely alone. It took four minutes of small talk before he sussed out that the missing female was feeling under the weather and would join them later on if she improved. If he believed his mother's insinuations, Hermione's sudden illness was nothing other than an unannounced pregnancy. George found another reason to be annoyed when Ron merely smiled at the suggestion.

Halfway through the first course, he decided that the insinuation, as much as he didn't believe it, nevertheless needed a definitive confirmation one way or the other. He refused to inspect why this was important to him. "I need to step out for a bit," he said to Charlie who, despite some obvious curiosity, nodded and agreed to cover.

"Be back before dessert," Charlie advised. George grinned and ducked behind a curtain to Apparate.

The townhome was every part as pretentious as it had been over the summer when George had been there to celebrate its purchase. Every eave and window was adorned with a neo-classical need to claim history that was undeserved. Despite his taste in dragonskin, George generally preferred utility over decoration, and he found the faux-buttresses nauseating in a new-money sort of way. Even if, admittedly, the latest generation of Weasleys were new money, they didn't have to show it off quite so much.

The wards allowed him past the front door and into the stairwell. Light drifted down from the second floor, tendrils of it escaping from under one of the doorways. He opened his mouth to call out and then thought better of it. Spontaneity's transient courage deserted him and left only nerves. He peered up the stairs for a moment more before releasing a muted sigh; reckless of him, really, to have done this. How was he to explain, without sounding ridiculous or pissed, that he had left in the middle of dinner to find out whether or not she was really pregnant?

And what if she was then? He could hardly perv on the girl pregnant with his future niece or nephew, could he?

No, he should leave. He went to do so, fingers picking at his collar and throat wishing for a drink, and then froze; a cloud-gatherer somewhere laughed at him.

"Ron? No, wait-- George?" Her words moved closer. "George, what on earth-- what are you doing here?"

He collected himself and turned around, a sheepish expression in place. "They said you were sick."

She paused on the final step, her expression hidden in shadow. "Sick? Oh right, well, not really. Lumos." Light filled the room, and George's mouth went uncomfortably dry. The dress was barely a dress at all; it clung to her skin, left her shoulders dangerously bare, and beheld a bold slit that showed entirely too much of her normally hidden legs. The color truly took it, though, a salacious red that hinted of femme fatales and lipstick rings.

He hated it instantly.

"If you'll take care of this clasp for me--" She pointed to a space on her back. "--I'll fix you something to drink."

His first impulse was to refuse, but he imagined making a hasty retreat at this point would only exacerbate things further. His fingers fumbled with the tiny silver clip as he unsuccessfully ignored the electric thrills that chased through his blood with each accidental touch of her skin.

"Thanks." He stared at the red gathered in her cheeks. "Plainly, I'm fine," she continued, ducking into the kitchen and hiding behind the refrigerator door. She emerged with a wine bottle and two chilled glasses. "I didn't realize that it was going to be a, you know, fancy dinner. I stood out like a sore thumb."

He accepted the proffered glass and fought back a smile. Red wine cold? He supposed it could be worse; she could have put ice cubes in it. "Well, you'll match up now."

He heard her sigh. "Ron is going to have a fit; he doesn't like this dress ."

George nearly choked. "Why on earth not?" He hoped he didn't sound nearly as incredulous as he felt. What straight male in his right mind wouldn't want that sort of dress on the girl he liked? His reasons for disliking it had nothing to do with how it looked and everything with how it made him feel.

She grinned and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Thanks, but even you have to admit it's a bit ostentatious." Her lips turned serious. "I shouldn't try to provoke Ron like this, I know, but it feels good to rile things up every now and again."

He knew he would regret asking, but the distress in her lips pressed him to inquire. "Trouble in paradise?"

She hesitated, her gaze darting from the flushed liquid in her glass back to his hopefully neutral expression. "Not really, no. Except. . . it feels sometimes like I'm with two different people. Ron's changed so much since he landed that contract last year, and now he's so, so--" She faltered over the word. "I don't even know. But then there was that night at the opera and it was like when we first graduated. There was spark and energy, and--"

Her face flooded with color. "Oh god, please just ignore that I said any of that." Her hands pressed to her cheeks. "Please."

George laughed, a warmth in his chest swelling from equal parts male pride and fascination; he had known Hermione Granger to be many things, but cutely embarrassed was a first. It didn't hurt that he now had direct confirmation that his ministrations in the dark had been fully appreciated. "I'm sorry. I think I might be suffering from a temporary deafness hex. I missed everything after 'Not really.'"

She smiled crookedly and sipped from her glass, her lips soon stained dark from the wine. As he watched her fingers circle the rim of the glass, his good humor faded, dulled by the realization that he disliked the dress for yet other reasons. The gown did nothing to show off her finer assets, like the fly-away curl behind her ear or the self-conscious way her fingers tapped across the glass. It was vulgar, the dress, in its disguise, both artless and cunning in its complete camouflage. The gown was female and sex and desire, and she too was all of these things, but in it, she was no one special; she wasn't her.

"I think Ron's right; don't wear that dress." His tone hid nothing of the rough feeling behind his words, and he wondered what she would make of it, of him in her house and nothing but two brief steps separating them.

She stared, her brown eyes blank of expression, and then nodded. "I'll just need help again with the--" She turned her back to him, her fingers far from the silver clasp. His hand reached, nearing the unmarred stretch of skin, and then paused. She cocked her head backwards, eyes askance. "George?"

He smiled, unlinked the clasp, and stepped back. "Done." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, careful to keep his features in their usual fixture of carelessness. "Try not to be too late, Granger; dessert's supposed to be some sort of famed family secret."

He did not make it back for the fourth course or the fifth one, or any course after that; he found sanctuary in a nameless dive filled with smoke and anonymous music. It took five drinks before he could untuck the thought from the back of his mind and polish it into awareness. As he regarded the soap-stained glass, his fingers far too long for its breadth, he admitted to the truth: his recent. . . fascination with his brother's girlfriend was no simple case of physical attraction.

It was far more, and far worse, than that.

It was--

He staggered up from his stool, muttering apologies as he stumbled toward the exit. He braced against the back alley wall, his feet avoiding the refuse that littered the asphalt. He sought relief, but the tepid night air offered only lethargy; no wind teased, no breeze tempted. Hesitantly, he raised his face toward the hazy glint of moon light that skittered out from behind the string of clouds. He wondered, as if he often did late at night and snockered, if the Muggles had it right and there was life after death, a heaven waiting for them. He wondered, as he always did, if his twin watched down from it, a not-so-silent observer of the mess he was slowly creating of his life.

And he wondered, for the first time, what Fred would say if he knew George had fallen in love with their younger brother's girlfriend.

"Merlin help me, Fred," he told the sky, "because I don't think I can."

end three


A/N: So plainly, the Epilogue is being treated fast and loose. There are some pieces to the final chapters of DH, I'm keeping intact, such as Fred's death. There are others, as you'll discover later on, that I'm ignoring completely. I realize a good portion of fandom take no issue with these kinds of liberties, but I thought it best to place a bit warning in case this should bother you.

I imagine, though, that if you're reading a George Weasley/Hermione Granger story, you're not exactly super-glued to your favorite 'ship.

For those of you (ever so patient and faithful and far too generous few) who are following my other GW/HG story, Difference Always Matters, I realize it's been a long while since I've updated (again), but it is still being worked on. I promise, it will not be dropped; it will (one day) be finished.

Thanks as always-- and look forward to next week!